“Remember his words,” Jerico shouted, ignoring the fallen. The villagers of Selma were watching their battle. They heard those words. Let the contempt and mockery burn into them a lesson far deeper than any lecture of Ashhur could achieve. “Remember his disgust, and remember who stood at your side.”
“Enough!” Bathala screamed. He sprinted across the dirt, moving with inhuman speed despite his injuries. Jerico batted his shield side to side, batting aside the blows. He read the movements of the fallen’s arms to predict the attacks and positioned himself accordingly every time. Seconds slipped past, heartbeat by heartbeat, as Bathala failed to wear Jerico down beneath his onslaught. Yet every block burned into the fallen’s hands with the light of his shield. Every hit robbed a bit of strength Bathala no longer could spare.
Finally, Jerico let his shield lead the way and took the offensive. He slammed it into Bathala’s sword, smashing it away like a child’s toy. Holy light washed over the fallen’s ashen skin. With the inevitability of mountains, the unstoppable nature of rivers, Jerico bore down on the fallen angel. When he finally swung Bonebreaker, it was for the kill. Its magic activated, and when it hit Bathala’s exposed left side, it blasted apart his rib cage, continued inward, and snapped his spine in half. The fallen’s body collapsed, his death-cry a raspy, furious protest against the failing of his internal organs.
With Bathala’s death, the village fell silent. Jerico stood in its vacant community center among a field of bodies. His shoulders lifted and fell with labored breaths. The eyes of the villagers were upon him, and though they were grateful, he could feel a hint of fear at the power he wielded. He looked to the corpses of both orcs and fallen angels. Another reminder that his purpose on Dezrel involved far more killing than preaching. Necessary it may be, but it still put a vice about his heart. The Gods’ Wars were supposed to be over. When they rebuilt the Citadel, Jerico had envisioned a future of teaching, of lectures and leading through example. Not more death. Not more killing.
“Do not bury them,” he said as he clipped his mace to his belt. “Give them to the river.”
He slung his shield over his shoulder and began his trek north. Jenava rushed to his side while the rest of the villagers slowly emerged from hiding within their homes.
“Where will you go?” Jenava asked.
“Where else?” he said, doing his best to put the words of the fallen out of mind, and away from his heart. “Home.”
10
“Who is he again?” Jessilynn asked. She stood beside Dieredon at the front of Ahaesarus’s army. A thin river known as Deer Crossing quietly flowed at their feet, separating them from the Knothills controlled by the Lord of the Castle of Caves.
“A war hero,” the elf said.
“Which war?”
Dieredon winced. “The Gods’ War. Decorating and cheering on those who fought my people has fallen out of fashion over the past five years. Lord Eston’s soldiers defended Mordeina during its first siege, and he was one of the few minor lords to refuse surrender when Melorak took control.”
“So they’ve fought armies of the gods before,” Jessilynn said. “Will they do so again?”
The elf glanced over his shoulder at the thousands of beast-men impatiently waiting at the Crossing.
“Some holy army this is.”
“It’s not much of an army on the other side, either.”
Lord Samuel Eston rode atop a horse on the opposite side of the wide but shallow river. Green banners marked by a red rose in the center fluttered from seven tall poles carried by young men. Jessilynn knew the yellow rose was the mark of the Hemman family, but after Lord Sebastian’s death years prior, and the subsequent Gods’ War, the family had lost control over the lands. This new lord had apparently been a knight of some renown, and accepted King Antonil’s appointment during the first few chaotic years following the start of his reign. An additional dozen mounted soldiers flanked his sides, and they too wore tabards decorated in green and marked by a red rose. Stretching out behind him were another five hundred or so armed soldiers. They lined the edge of the river, the bank of which bore spikes pointed toward the water. Not many, only a few dozen, which implied the defenses had been hastily constructed.
Though the water was shallow enough to wade through, and Ahaesarus’s angels themselves could fly overhead, they had stopped at the river upon sighting the forces. A trio of men floated across on a log platform to greet them. The platform scraped along the bank, guided by the poles of two soldiers.
“Lord Eston is happy to speak with your leaders,” an older man with a graying beard said. He gestured to the tightly wrapped and nailed logs of the platform. “This is for any who don’t bear wings, so long as they are elf, human, or angel.”
Ahaesarus, standing to Jessilynn’s left, crossed his arms and glared at the messenger.
“Is my army not welcome throughout the North?” he asked.
“Human, elf, and angel,” the older man said. “They are my orders, and they will not change on repeating.”
Ahaesarus glanced Jessilynn’s way. She had to steel herself to prevent from flinching.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall honor our guest to the very letter. A human, an elf, and an angel. Dieredon, Jessilynn, would you accompany me across?”
There was no denying such a request, and so Jessilynn found herself on the opposite side of Deer Crossing, kneeling before Lord Samuel Eston on his horse. He looked like a man of battle, though his gray beard hid a bit of fat and wrinkles around his neck, and his chainmail was layered over a stomach that had drank more wine than water in recent years. Still, his face bore several scars, including one along above his eye that kept the eyebrow bald, as well as portions of his hair as it snaked upward to the crown of his skull. That he had lived through what appeared to be a truly vicious cut was impressive.
“Greetings, angel of Ashhur,” Samuel said. “It is good to see not all of your kind have become the monsters that now rule Mordeina.”
Though he said nothing and kept his expression passive, Jessilynn caught the little flutter of the angel’s wings to mark his dismay.
“Is there a place we might speak?” Ahaesarus asked, his baritone voice smoother than silk. “Somewhere we may plan and make promises?”
“I am not one for secret handshakes and whispered agreements, angel,” Samuel said. He projected his voice so all around him might hear. “And I thought angels of Ashhur would believe the same. Am I wrong? Or are you at risk of suffering the same punishment that befell your brethren in Mordeina?”
From the corner of her eye, Jessilynn saw Dieredon reach for his bow. For one brief moment she thought the elf was insane, that he would try to put an arrow through Samuel for the insult. It was only when she followed his gaze that she realized he was watching Ahaesarus’s every move. The tension, already unbearable, intensified around her so that she suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
“Given the tragedy that befell Mordan, what you call the Night of Black Wings, I will forgive any fears over the loyalty and safety my angels and I present,” he said. It sounded like every word was tremendously difficulty to lift off his tongue. “But we march toward Mordeina, and aim to bring low those whom our god has cursed. With the Yellow Rose broken, we thought to come to the Castle of Caves, and from within its safety, plot out the future of our war.”
“And I would gladly accept your white wings among my halls,” Samuel said. “But the Knothills shall not suffer the clawed feet of the beast-men. Those beasts over there? They stay there, on the eastern side of the river.”
Ahaesarus took a step back, appearing surprised at such a refusal.
“Those beasts are working to make amends for the slaughter and violence they have unleashed upon human lands,” he said. “And they do so by serving under my command.”
“I do not care who they serve. Deer Crossing marks the outer edge of lands entrusted to my care. No beast-men of the Vile Wedge shall s
et foot upon it. I will not entreat with their kind, nor risk the safety of my people to those…monsters.”
“And I give you no choice?” Ahaesarus asked softly. “If I demand that you grant all my army succor in the Castle of Caves?”
That the lord did not quiver before such cold rage impressed Jessilynn to no end.
“Then you shall have to kill the five hundred I would pledge to your aid instead. I doubt you can suffer a single unnecessary casualty if you are to retake Mordeina from the mad angel. Is your pride…” He shook his head and then pointed to the beast-men on the opposite side of the river. “No, is their pride worth that, angel? Think wisely. You know their place. Accept what help I can offer. Five hundred trained soldiers, given to you in aid instead of sent to Mordeina as the King of the Fallen has demanded. Do not be a fool.”
Ahaesarus’s voice dropped.
“You would refuse your king?” he asked softly, but even a soft word by him traveled throughout the lines of soldiers gathered in waiting.
“I serve King Gregory Copernus,” Lord Eston said. “Is he with you, angel? If so, then bring him before me, and if he gives the order, I shall let your beasts cross. Not before then.”
Ahaesarus was a terrible liar, that much was clear. He looked ready to rip Samuel’s head off his shoulders, and that anger and frustration was evident in every single word he spoke. It made a mockery of his attempted diplomacy as he boomed out a statement meant to be heard by the gathered armies of both sides.
“I am ever grateful for the aid given, Lord Eston. I accept the offered soldiers, and look forward to leading them into battle against those who would threaten the safety and prosperity of Mordan.”
The return trip over Deer Crossing was a cold and quiet affair. The moment they stepped off the raft, Ahaesarus spread his wings and bellowed orders for the army to prepare for marching. Meanwhile, behind them, the five hundred soldiers granted by Lord Eston started wading through the hip-deep water with their swords and shields raised above their heads. Jessilynn remained still, quietly working over a question she wanted to ask. Dieredon noticed, and he leaned closer to her.
“Trouble lingers, and I will let you speak it in private,” he whispered. He then bowed low to her and Ahaesarus and trudged back toward the Sonowin, who nibbled grass farther back from the riverbank. Jessilynn would have preferred he stayed. She didn’t like feeling so alone and overwhelmed by the powerful angel.
“Is something the matter?” Ahaesarus asked, finally noticing that she had remained at his side. He furrowed his brow, as if he knew something was amiss with her but was uncertain of its cause. Jessilynn decided to just come straight out and say it instead of beating around the bush.
“You didn’t tell him what you’re planning,” she said. “Lord Eston refuses to acknowledge the beast-men in any way. Do you think he will allow them a nation of their own that borders his?”
“He will allow what I command.”
“Or you have no intention of commanding it in the first place.”
Ahaesarus often carried himself with an air of calm authority. He walked, and talked, how she would imagine a true king would behave on Dezrel. That seriousness took on a dark edge when he loomed over her. It was not mercy or compassion she now expected from him, but an angered king’s judgment.
“Would you call me a liar, little paladin?”
“I would call you King of the Vile,” she said. She cast her arm to the beast-men army already preparing to march. “Behold your subjects. To what fate do you lead them? To what nation? To what graves?”
Ahaesarus crossed his arms, and the hardening of his features frightened her more than any wolf-man fang. Before he might answer, another angel flew down to join them, racing in with such reckless speed Jessilynn briefly feared they were under attack. The angel was overwhelmed with excitement, and he clapped his hands excitedly, oblivious to Ahaesarus’ frown.
“Wonderful news,” the angel said. “We have made contact at last.”
“With who?” Jessilynn asked. The angel scout turned her way and beamed a smile.
“The survivors.”
“That’s right, put your whole arm into it,” Harruq said. “Come on, soldier, thrust like you want to kill me with that sword, not tickle me a little. No evil angel is gonna care if you poke his skin like a mosquito.”
His training partner, a short man absolutely packed with muscle, repeatedly thrust his longsword at Harruq’s midsection. He was putting in a good effort, and would actually kill a regular foe, but Harruq knew he needed to stretch his body to the absolute limit to overcome his limited stature. Plus, regular foes were not what they’d face on the battlefield, but Azariah’s cursed angels. They fought in a clear field amongst dozens who sparring after their midday meal, getting a bit of frustration and training in prior to resuming their tedious, exhausting march across the countryside.
“I’m better than a damn mosquito,” his foe shouted.
“You sure? Swatting you away is easy enough, you could have fooled me.”
His training halted the moment he saw wings fly overhead. Panic was his first reaction, but the approaching wings weren’t black, but feather-white, like a swan or dove. Harruq let out a loud whoop that was quickly shared by dozens around him. Ahaesarus’s angels…they were still alive!
“No rest, not for you all,” he told the other soldiers as he sheathed Salvation and Condemnation. “But methinks I got a meeting to be at.”
Aurelia met him halfway across the clearing. She looked beautiful as ever with the soft wind teasing her hair and the edges of her dress.
“Good news, I hope?” he asked.
“It’s not bad news, at least,” she answered.
“I’ll take it.”
She slipped her hand in his, and together they approached Tarlak’s tent on the far side of the camp, pitched underneath the shade of a lone oak tree. The angel scout departed before they arrived. Tarlak had sprawled a map of Mordan out atop a grand oak table that he, inexplicably and most certainly through magic, kept transporting around everywhere they went. While Tess was absent, Qurrah stood off to the side, content to listen in on the planning even if he didn’t contribute. It looked like neither he nor Tarlak had said a word to each other as they waited.
Harruq wished they could get along, but it was a fool’s hope. Even if Harruq could forgive Qurrah for Aullienna, nothing forced Tarlak to forgive for Delysia’s murder. At least they weren’t trying to kill each other, Harruq thought grimly.
“So, what do we got?” he asked, putting a grand smile on his face to pretend he didn’t see the awkward glares between the two waiting spellcasters.
“Ahaesarus’s army is here,” Tarlak said. He pointed to the thin river snaking southward from Deer Lake. “Just at the entrance to the Knothills. According to the angel’s scouts, Azariah is sitting tight and waiting for soldiers to come in from the various lords scattered about the south.”
“The North refuses Azariah’s rule?” Aurelia asked.
“It’s more that there’s not much left to rule after the beast-men crushed the wall of towers and slaughtered the survivors at the Castle of the Yellow Rose.” Tarlak winced. “Gods, what a sorrow state of affairs. Regardless, enemy soldiers are to our south. As for us, Ahaesarus is northwest. So that makes our path clear. We skirt the eastern edge of Mordeina, staying as far away from that nightmare capital as we can, while making our way toward the Yellow Rose. Ahaesarus will fly westward, and if his scout’s estimation of time is correct, we’ll meet halfway between Mordeina and the ruined castle.”
“Finally linking up our forces,” Harruq said, and he smiled as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Does he have any ideas of what to do then?”
“Ahaesarus isn’t thinking with subtlety or tact,” Qurrah answered before Tarlak could. “He wants to take a straight line to Mordeina and lay the city under siege.”
“Do we have the numbers to pull that off?” Harruq
asked incredulously.
“Does it matter?” Tarlak asked. He snatched the map and rolled it closed. “We’ve got a destination, so we’ll march toward it and hope for the best. Maybe if we’re lucky, that bastard will come out and face us instead of waiting like a coward. He’s ruled as king for far too long. Time to break his crown.”
11
The Queen would not meet with him. Her army had arrived in a great flourish of trumpets and drums. So much of it had been pompous nonsense, for the gathered number paled when compared to the invasion force that had so recently tried, and failed, to overthrow the angels’ rule over Mordan. For three days, Bernard had approached the Bloodbrick and requested a meeting. For three days, he was denied.
On the fourth, black wings marked the northern sky.
“You see them, do you not?” Bernard shouted to the soldiers that stopped him halfway across the bridge, at the exact point where it was officially considered part of Ker. “We have no weapons. We lack all means to defend ourselves. Grant us passage, or at least grant me an audience with your Queen!”
“I’ll go check with her,” one soldier relented, though he seemed much more worried about the approaching fallen than Bernard’s wrath.
Ashhur grant me patience, Bernard thought as he waited. Perhaps he considered himself a patient man, but lives were on the line. Those fallen angels most certainly came with death in mind. The refugees had fled their nearby encampment, and they crowded just outside the entrance to the Bloodbrick, still holding out hope that Bernard might secure timely passage.
Bernard thought that if his request were granted, he’d be brought back to the same tent as Commander Lurik, but that was not the case. Soldiers kept him in place, and it was the Queen herself who came to greet him, flanked by a squad of six knights. The Queen was radiant as ever, traces of youth still on her dimpled face, but her auburn eyes carried the tired wisdom of multiple wars. Her long brown hair was tightly braided, woven with silver lace, and then wrapped about her neck. Bernard had never met her, only heard the occasional story. She was brilliant and ruthless – the absolute worst personality to deal with when trying to procure aid for the refugees.
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